The Return of Sherlock Holmes
this, Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: ‘Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of
Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.’ That is the clue which
they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it leads
infallibly to me. I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the warrant
to arrest me. It will break my mother’s heart—it will break her
heart!” He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension, and
swayed backward and forward in his chair.
I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being
the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and
handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue
eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His
age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that
of a gentleman. From the pocket of his light summer overcoat
protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his
profession.
“We must use what time we have,” said Holmes. “Watson, would you
have the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in
question?”
Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted, I
read the following suggestive narrative:
“Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he
has carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring. For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back of
the house, and last night, about twelve o’clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed. Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem to
point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at the absence of
the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire, and
an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared from
the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
number of important papers were scattered about the room, and
finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight
traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.
It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in
his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has been
identified as the property of this person, who is a young London
solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of Graham
and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings, E.C. The police believe
that they have evidence in their possession which supplies a very
convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be
doubted that sensational developments will follow.
“LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the
murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a
warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister
developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the
signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it
is now known that the French windows of his bedroom (which is
on the ground floor) were found to be open, that there were
marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across to the
wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The
police theory is that a most sensational crime has been
committed, that the victim was clubbed to death in his own
bedroom, his papers rifled, and his dead body dragged across
to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as to hide all
traces of the crime. The conduct of the criminal
investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the
clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.”
Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips together
to this remarkable account.
“The case has certainly some points of interest,” said he, in his
languid fashion. “May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane,
how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to
be enough evidence to justify your arrest?”
“I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.
Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.
Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my
business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in
the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw
the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested
either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from
London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is
that?”
It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
two uniformed policemen outside.
“Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade.
Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.
“I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of
Lower Norwood.”
McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into
his chair once more like one who is crushed.
“One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an hour more or less
can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to
give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might
aid us in clearing it up.”
“I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up,” said
Lestrade, grimly.
“None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested
to hear his account.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything,
for you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past,
and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At
the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to
warn him that anything he may say will appear in evidence against
him.”
“I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I ask is that you
should hear and recognize the absolute truth.”
Lestrade looked at his watch. “I’ll give you half an hour,” said
he.
“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that I knew nothing of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years
ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart.
I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three
o’clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city.
But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his
visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered
with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on my
table.
“‘Here is my will,’ said he. ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast
it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.’
“I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment
when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his
property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
grey eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly
believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained
that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he
had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard
of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his
money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer
out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed
by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I
have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then
informed me that there were a number of documents—building
leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was
necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind
would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he
begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night,
bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. ‘Remember, my
boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
them.’ He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise
it faithfully.
“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and
all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I
sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to
have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that
hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it
was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him——”
“One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?”
“A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper.”
“And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?”
“Exactly,” said McFarlane.
“Pray proceed.”
McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:
“I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal
supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into
his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened
and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It
was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that
we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his
own French window, which had been open all this time.”
“Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.
“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down.
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
window. I could not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind, my
boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep
your stick until you come back to claim it.’ I left him there,
the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I